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COMEDY  IN  ONE  £ICT 


By  CLARE  KUMMER 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY  SAMUEL  FRENCH 


Price  Fifty  Cents 


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New  York 

SAMUEL  FRENCH 

Publisher 

25  West  45th  Street 


London 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  Ltd. 

Publishers 

26  Southampton  Street 
Strand,  W.C.  2. 


The  Robbery 


A  COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 


By 
CLARE  KUMMER 


ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY  SAMUEL  FRENCH 


New  York 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

Publisher 
25  WEST  45xn  STREET 


London 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  LTD. 

Publisher 
26  Southampton  St.,  Strand 


"THE  ROBBERY"  is  fully  protected  by  copy 
right  and  is  subject  to  royalty  when  produced  by 
professionals  or  amateurs. 

Permission  to  act,  read  publicly,  or  to  make  any 
use  of  it  must  be  obtained  from  Samuel  French, 
25  West  45th  Street,  New  York,  and  no  perform 
ance  may  take  place  until  a  written  permission  has 
been  obtained. 

Professional  and  amateur  rates  quoted  on  appli 
cation. 

Whenever  this  play  is  produced  the  following 
notice  must  appear  on  all  programs,  printing  and 
advertising  for  the  play: — Produced  by  special 
arrangement  with  Samuel  French  of  New  York. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America  by 
THE  RICHMOND  HILL  RECORD,  RICHMOND  HILL,  N.  Y. 


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THE   ROBBERY 

Originally  produced  at  The  Punch  and  Judy  Thea 
tre,  New  York,  Monday,  February  13-28,  1921,  with 
the  following  cast : 

PERSONS  OF  THE  PLAY 

JOHN  UPTON,  A  father J.  M.  Kerrigan 

MARGARET  UPTON,  A  mother ....  Mrs.  Alice  Chapin 

EDIE  UPTON,  a  daughter Ruth  Gillmore 

ROBERT  HAMILTON,  A  son Sidney  Blackmer 

FIELDING,  A  butler George  Bliven 

SCENE. — The  sitting-room  of  the  Upton's 
house,  New  York. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  CHARACTERS 

JOHN  UPTON,  a  man  of  about  forty-five,  iron-gray 
hair.  He  wears  a  business  suit,  gray  prefer 
ably. 

MARGARET  UPTON,  about  the  same  age  as  JOHN. 
Very  charming  and  so  well  bred  that  she  does 
not  have  to  worry  about  little  things.  She  wears 
a  smart  tailored  suit,  suitable  for  travelling  to 
Rochester,  and  a  hat  with  a  nice  tilt  to  it. 

EDIE,  not  more  than  eighteen  at  the  most.  She  wears 
a  negligee,  not  too  bed-roomy.  It  is  more  like  a 
tea-gown — slippers  to  match. 

BOB,  just  out  of  college.  Evening  clothes.  A  Tuxe 
do,  a  soft  black  hat. 


The  Robbery 


SCENE. — The  sitting-room  of  the  UPTONS'  house  on 
Seventy-second  Street.  A  door  L.U.E.  leading 
into  hall  and  sleeping  rooms,  and  window  and 
window-scat  below.  Another  door  R.U.E.  lead 
ing  into  hall  and  downstairs.  It  is  an  English 
basement  house  and  the  sitting-room  is  on  the 
second  floor. 

It  is  summer  and  the  furniture  is  covered  with 
linen. 

On  rise  the  clock  is  striking  twelve.  FIELDING 
enters  stealthily  L.U.E.  with  case  containing  sil 
ver.  He  extinguishes  the  light  which  is  burning 
dimly.  As  he  goes  to  pick  up  the  suit  case,  his 
foot  upsets  it,  making  a  light  crash.  He  picks 
it  up  and  hurriedly  exits. 

Enter  EDIE  almost  immediately.  She  wears 
a  negligee  and  slippers.  She  peers  into  the  room, 
runs  to  door  R.U.E.,  looks  out,  comes  back,  rings 
bell  and  runs  to  the  window,  opens  it  and  calls 
out. 

EDIE.  Help !  Help !  (Looking  in  greatly  fright 
ened)  Oh,  dear — what  shall  I  do,  if  someone  comes ! 
(Bell  rings.  EDIE  again  looks  out)  Who  is  it?  Are 
you  a  policeman  ?  Yes,  I'm  afraid  something  is  the 
matter — but  I  can't  let  you  in  unless  you're  a  police 
man — I'm  all  alone  in  the  house,  and  I  think  there's 

5 


6  THE  ROBBERY 

a  burglar !  Wait !  (She  switches  on  the  lights.  By 
this  time  HAMILTON  is  coming  through  the  window. 
He  is  a  little  dishevelled,  but  very  serious  and  polite. 
He  wears  a  dinner  coat  and  carries  a  soft  hat.  This 
he  lays  on  chair  almost  immediately. 

BOB.  I  thought  I'd  better  come  right  in — you  see, 
I  don't  know  any  policemen  around  here — yet. 

EDIE.    Oh,  mercy ! 

BOB.  Don't  be  frightened.  I  live  just  across  the 
street. 

EDIE.    Are  you  sure  ? 

BOB.  Yes — really.  My  mother's  in  the  country, 
but  my  father's  there — he's  bought  the  house  and 
gone  to  bed — and  I  was  just  sitting  on  the  front  steps 
asleep  when  I  heard  you  call  "Help !" 

EDIE.    Sitting  on  the  front  steps  asleep ! 

BOB.  Yes.  My  father  has  my  key.  He  doesn't 
like  my  being  out  nights.  So  I  either  have  to  go  to  a 
Turkish  bath  or  sit  on  the  steps  all  night. 

EDIE.    But  it's  only  twelve  o'clock. 

BOB.  Splendid  of  you  to  say  so.  My  father  likes 
to  have  the  lights  out  at  ten.  You  see,  I'm  going  to 
be  his  partner  some  day,  so  he  wants  me  to  be  down 

bright  and  early  to  sweep  out  the  office What 

was  it  that  frightened  you  ? 

EDIE.     I  heard  things  ! 

BOB.     Really f    What  sort  of  things? 

EDIE.  I  don't  know.  Then  there  was  a  crash — 
and  I  ran  out  and  saw  a  man  disappearing  down  the 
stairs. 

BOB.    Oh — you  did ! 

EDIE.  Then  I  rang  for  Fielding,  and  there  was 
no  answer — and  then  I  opened  the  window  and  called 
for  help. 

BOB.     Fielding? 

EDIE.    The  butler. 

BOB.    There's  no  one  else  in  the  house? 


THE  ROBBERY  7 

EDIE.  Well,  mother's  maid  is  supposed  to  be  here, 
but  she  isn't. 

BOB.     I  see. 

EDIE.  I  let  her  go  to  her  sister's  down  on  Long 
Island,  because  poor  Maggie's  husband  has  broken 
his  leg,  and  Maggie  wanted  to  come  to  town  and  see 
him — she  has  so  little  pleasure — so  I  let  Ellen  go  to 
look  after  Maggie's  children. 

BOB.     I  see. 

EDIE.    Do  you  suppose  Fielding  is  dead  ? 

BOB.    Probably  a  sound  sleeper. 

EDIE.  Father  has  the  bell  in  the  servants'  room 
specially  hung — he  could  never  sleep  through  it. 

BOB.  Well,  it  wasn't  long  ago.  Maybe  he's  dress 
ing.  If  butlers  ever  take  off  their  clothes — I  don't 
know  whether  they  do  or  not.  Shall  I  go  and  look 
for  him  ? 

EDIE.  No — I'll  ring  again.  But  I'm  sure  there's 
no  one  alive  in  the  house.  Don't  you  have  that  feel 
ing?  (She  rings  again) 

BOB.  Well,  no,  I  must  say  it's  awfully  cheerful 
and  pleasant  after  the  front  steps. 

EDIE.  (Hesitating  prettily)  Won't  you  sit  down 
— while  we're  waiting?  (She  sits  at  one  end  of 
couch) 

BOB.  Thanks.  Excuse  my  collar,  won't  you  ?  I'd 
have  taken  more  care  of  it  at  the  banquet  if  I'd 
known  I  was  coming. 

EDIE.     Oh — you've  been  to  a  banquet? 

BOB.  (He  sits  L.  end  of  couch)  Yes.  It  was 
jolly,  but  it  lasted  a  little  too  long.  Our  class  is 
going  to  the  boat  race  to-morrow  and  one  of  the 
fellows  unfortunately  had  a  birthday. 

EDIE.  I  see.  Well,  do  you  think  we  ought  to  tele 
phone  for  the  police? 

BOB.  Why,  not  on  my  account.  Are  you  afraid 
now? 


8  THE  ROBBERY 

EDIE.    No,  not  now.     But 

BOB.  I'll  stay  till  the  butler  gets  dressed.  I'm 
sure  he's  not  dead.  They  always  live  to  be  awfully 
old. 

EDIE.  I  wonder  what  it  could  have  been  that  made 
that  dreadful  crash.  It  sounded  as  if  all  the  chande 
liers  in  the  house  were  falling. 

BOB.    They  don't  usually  take  those. 

EDIE.  (Darting  forward,  picking  up  salt  spoon) 
Oh,  look 

BOB.    What  is  it? 

EDIE.    It's  one  of  the  little  silver  salt  spoons ! 

BOB.    Oh — he  was  after  the  silver! 

EDIE.  Yes — but  you  don't  understand — this  is 
one  of  Aunt  Abingdon's  salt  spoons. 

BOB.     Does  that  make  it  better  or  worse? 

EDIE.  Oh,  it  makes  it  dreadful — for  he  must  have 
taken  it  all !  The  whole  case ! 

BOB.  (Taking  the  spoon)  Well — we've  got  this 
much  left  of  it — anyway. 

EDIE.  It  was  in  father's  room — wait — I  shall  look 
and  see  if  it's  gone.  But  I'm  sure  it  is — aren't  you? 

BOB.    Oh,  absolutely.    Let  me  go  first.  .  .  . 

EDIE.  It's  the  room  across  the  hall.  Wait !  You'd 
better  take  the  poker — but  I  don't  believe  there's 
anyone  in  there — now.  (They  go  up  to  door  L.  EDIE 
holds  the  door  open.  BOB  looks  in  door  across  hall. 
EDIE  closes  her  eyes)  Do  you  see  anybody  ? 

BOB.    No. 

EDIE.  Is  there  a  suit-case  lying  on  the  couch  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed? 

BOB.     No. 

EDIE.  Then  it's  gone.  (They  come  back)  He  did 
lake  it !  How  terrible ! 

BOB.    Is  it  ?    Can't  you  get  some  more  ? 

EDIE.  Not  like  this.  .  .  .  It's  been  in  the  family 
for  years  (Replaces  poker)  Sit  down  and  let  me 
tell  you (They  sit  on  the  couch,  a  space  be- 


THE  ROBBERY  9 

tween  them)  Father  and  mother  were  taking  it  to 
Rochester  to-night  to  Aunt  Abingdon's  wedding.  No 
one  ever  thought  she  would  marry,  you  see — and  she 
didn't  think  so — so  she  let  father  keep  the  silver  for 
me  in  his  safe  deposit  vault 

BOB.     (Rousing  himself)     I  see! 

EDIE.  Then  she  suddenly  decided  to  marry — and 
sent  for  it,  and  father  and  mother  started  with  it — 
they  took  the  midnight  train.  But  there  were  so 
many  suit-cases  that  father  evidently  left  the  wrong 
one — and  I  saw  it  lying  on  the  couch  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed  in  his  room  after  they'd  gone —  (During 
this  recital  BOB  falls  asleep)  Why,  he's  asleep. 
(Takes  BOB'S  hand) 

BOB.  (Singing  cheerfully)  Cheer,  cheer,  the 
gang's  all  here!  (Opening  his  eyes)  I  beg  your 
pardon 

EDIE.  I'm  awfully  sorry  to  wake  you  up — but  I 
was  telling  you  about  the  silver. 

BOB.  I  know  it — I  remember  perfectly — it's  gone. 
Do  you  feel  very  badly  about  it  ? 

EDIE.  Well,  it  would  have  been  terribly  nice  to 
have  it.  The  tea-pot  was  so  cunning. 

BOB.  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  You  can  have  mine.  I 
have  a  lot  of  silver  coming  to  me  and  I  don't  care 
anything  about  it,  at  all.  There  ought  to  have  been 
a  girl  to  have  it,  but  there  wasn't.  It's  marked  with 
an  E.  What's  your  name? 

EDIE.  My  name  is  Edie — isn't  that  wonderful? 
But  of  course  I  couldn't  take  it 

BOB.     Oh — you  couldn't? 

EDIE.  No — because  those  things  descend  in  fami 
lies,  you  know.  There's  a  regular  form  that  has  to 
be  gone  through. 

BOB.  I  see.  Well,  can't  we  go  through  it  ?  Any 
how,  there's  nothing  very  regular  about  the  way 
yours  has  descended.  It  may  not  even  have  the  right 
initials  for  the  burglar's  family. 


io  THE  ROBBERY 

EDIE.  I  know — and  doesn't  it  seem  dreadful  for 
all  the  little  burglars  to  be  eating  with  Aunt  Abing- 
don's  spoons? 

BOB.    Sorry  I  made  you  think  of  that. 

EDIE.  You  know  I  ought  not  to  keep  you  here — 
but  there's  no  one  I  could  telephone  to  come  and 
stay  with  me — everyone  is  out  of  town. — We're  out 
of  town,  too,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  wedding. 

BOB.  Lucky  for  me  that  Aunt  Abbie  decided  to 
get  married.  I'd  go,  but  I  really  don't  think  I  ought 
to  leave  you — do  you?  If  you  send  me  away  there's 
nothing  but  the  cold  steps  across  the  street. 

EDIE.    Wouldn't  they  really  let  you  in  ? 

BOB.    Here  I  am. 

EDIE.    I'm  surprised  you  didn't  go  to  a  hotel ! 

BOB.  Well,  it  takes  quite  a  lot  of  time  and  cour 
age  to  get  home.  And  somehow,  after  you  get 
home  you  haven't  the  heart  to  go  anywhere  else.  It 
seems  as  though  the  least  they  could  do  is  to  let 
you  in. 

EDIE.  I  should  think  so.  You're  sleepy — if  only 
you  could  stay  until  it  gets  just  the  least  little  bit 
light. 

BOB.  (Rises)  Certainly  I  will.  I'll  stay — and 
I'll  try  to  stay  awake.  And  you  go  and  get  some 
sleep — there's  nothing  for  you  to  worry  about  any 
more.  There's  a  man  in  the  house. 

EDIE.  (Rising)  I  wish  I  could  make  you  more 
comfortable. 

BFB.     Oh,  I'm  all  right. 

EDIE.    No,  you're  not.    I  think  it's  your  collar. 

BOB.    I  know  it  is. 

EDIE.  I  know — you  shall  put  on  father's  dressing- 
gown — then  you  can  lie  down — if  you  find  you  can't 
sit  up.  (She  hurries  to  door  R.U.E.J  Of  course  if 
you  could  keep  awake  until  it's  just  a  little  bit  light, 
it  would  be  better.  (Exit) 

BOB.     I'll   keep  awake — here's   how   I'll   do  it! 


THE  ROBBERY  II 

(Starts  Victrola,  which  is  already  wound.  It  plays 
"The  Brook."  BOB  goes  to  couch  and  sits  on  the 
arm  for  a  moment.  Blinks  his  eyes,  goes  back  to 
Victrola.  Closes  it.  Places  one  arm  on  top,  his  head 
in  his  hand.  Enter  EDIE.  She  has  the  dressing- 
gown) 

EDIE.  (Laying  the  dressing-gown  on  the  table) 
Oh,  what  a  splendid  idea! 

BOB.  Isn't  it  ?  But  I  think  a  waltz  or  a  fox-trot 
would  be  more  effective. 

EDIE.  Oh,  but  haven't  you  ever  waltzed  to  this  ? 
I  have.  It's  heavenly  ! 

BOB.  Is  it?  (They  dance.  After  a  few  steps) 
Why,  it  is  heavenly ! 

EDIE.    It's  "The  Brook,"  you  know. 

BOB.  (As  they  dance)  "The  Brook?"  Does  it 
go  on  forever?  I  hope  it  does.  It's  wonderful — 
so  dreamy  .  .  . 

EDIE.    Dreamy — yes — perhaps  we'd  better  stop. 

BOB.  (Stopping  the  Victrola.  EDIE  sits  on  arm 
of  couch)  Every  time  I  go  to  sleep  I'll  just  wake 
up  and  start  the  music.  I  guess  Fielding  is  dead — 
or  he'd  be  here  by  this  time.  By  Jove — I've  an  idea ! 
Have  you  had  him  long? 

EDIE.     No — not  very. 

BOB.    Maybe  he  took  the  silver ! 

EDIE.    Oh — do  you  think  he  did  ? 

BOB.  If  it  makes  you  feel  any  better,  I'm  sure  he 
did. 

EDIE.  Well,  if  he  did  I'm  sure  he  won't  come 
back.  At  least  I  shouldn't  think  he  would.  So  I 
shouldn't  be  in  danger  any  more  and  perhaps  I  ought 
to  let  you  go. 

BOB.  Please  don't.  Anyway — you  can't  be  sure 
with  a  man  like  that.  Even  if  he's  taken  the  silver 
— he  might  decide  to  bring  it  back. 

EDIE.  It's  the  idea  of  being  alone  in  the  house, 
that's  sort  of  terrifying: 


12  THE  ROBBERY 

BOB.  Of  course.  I  shouldn't  think  of  allowing  it. 
I've  taken  charge  of  things  now — and  I  order  you 
to  talk  to  me  for  just  a  few  minutes  more,  then  go 
to  bed.  (He  puts  on  the  dressing-gown;  it  is  a  soft 
silk  one  and  slips  on  easily  over  his  coat.  EDIE  sits 
on  the  couch) 

EDIE.  What  sort  of  things  are  you  interested  in  ? 
Do  you  like  going  to  college  ? 

BOB.  Oh,  I'm  all  through  college — yes — didn't  I 
tell  you  I'm  going  into  business?  I'm  interested  in 
electricity  and  motor  boats  and  girls. 

EDIE.    Don't  you  care  for  anything  else? 

BOB.  (Sitting  beside  her.  A  little  nearer  this 
time)  Oh,  yes.  I'm  awfully  fond  of  my  mother. 

EDIE.  Do  you  know  what  I  want  to  do  ?  I  want 
to  raise  violets.  I  simply  adore  them — sweet  ones,  I 
mean. 

BOB.     So  do  I.    Let's  raise  them. 

EDIE.  You  never  can  buy  them  any  more,  you 
know — they're  not  the  least  bit  sweet.  And  it's  a 
pity  to  let  such  an  exquisite  fragrance  die  out  of 
the  world? 

BOB.  Why,  it's  terrible.  Is  it  dying  really?  No 
one  ever  told  me. 

EDIE.  Girls  can't,  you  know.  They  can't  say, 
"The  violets  you  sent  me  were  perfectly  horrid." 
But  they  always  are.  Because  they're  not  raised 
right.  They're  hurried,  and  chilled  and  dead.  Just 
dead  violets  with  a  ribbon  round  them. 

BOB.  Where's  my  handkerchief  ! — Can  we  do  any 
thing  about  it  to-night  ? 

EDIE.  No, — but  I'm  going  to  have  violet  frames 
under  my  window  in  the  country.  Father  says  I 
may.  Won't  that  be  heavenly?  Then  if  I  make  a 
success  of  them  I'll  send  them  in  to  shops.  Just  so 
that  people  can  buy  them  and  not  be  disappointed. 

BOB.  You  must  let  me  buy  the  first  bunch — and 
send  it  to  you. 


THE  ROBBERY  13 

EDIE.  (Wishing  to  inject  a  little  formality  into 
the  conversation)  What  have  you  been  reading 
lately  ? 

BOB.  Why — the  last  thing  I  read  was  the  news 
paper.  Don't  feel  that  you  have  to  talk  to  me, 
Edie. 

EDIE.    Oh,  I  love  it. 

BOB.    But  aren't  you  sleepy  ? 

EDIE.  Oh,  no,  it's  only  that  I  got  up  awfully  early 
to  come  to  town,  so  I  could  go  to  the  wedding.  And 
then  mother  decided  it  was  too  much  for  me.  To 
be  on  the  train  all  night. 

BOB.  I'm  so  glad.  Tell  me — would  you  like  to 
have  a  dog? 

EDIE.     I  have  two,  but  I'd  love  to  have  another. 

BOB.    I've  got  a  lovely  dog — he's  just  a  pup. 

EDIE.    But  don't  you  want  him  ? 

BOB.  Yes,  but  I'm  going1  into  business.  And  he's 
a  bird  dog  and  he's  awfully  unhappy  in  the  back 
yard. 

EDIE.    I'll  take  him  up  to  the  country — to-morrow. 

BOB.  All  right.  He's  a  thorough-bred — very 
good — but  he's  just  the  age  where  he  needs  a  lot  of 
care.  His  ears,  don't  stand  up  quite  right. 

EDIE.    And  what  do  you  do  about  them  ? 

BOB.  Well,  when  I'm  reading  I  sit  and  hold  them 
forward  and  up  a  little — he  likes  it. 

EDIE.    The  darling.     I'll  remember  to  do  it. 

BOB.  He  doesn't  know  much,  but  he'll  be  a  fine 
watch  dog  for  the  violets.  You  know,  that  idea 
about  the  violets  is  immense.  I  can't  wait  for  the 
great  day  when  the  first  fragrant  violet  in  years  hits 
New  York.  Why  not  call  it  "violet  day,"  and  have  a 
holiday  ? 

EDIE.  (Laughing  a  little)  Wouldn't  that  be 
lovely?  (The  tiniest  yawn.  She  glances  hastily  to 
see  if  it  was  observed.  It  was  not)  You  know,  I 


i4  THE  ROBBERY 

can't  understand  Mother's  letting  Father  forget  the 
silver. 

BOB.    Maybe  Father  let  Mother  forget. 

EDIE.    Oh,  no — Mother  never  forgets. 

BOB.    Mothers  are  wonderful. 

EDIE.    Aren't  they  ?    Fathers  are  nice,  too. 

BOB.  Yes,  sometimes.  But  they  can't  keep  it  up 
like  mothers. 

EDIE.  Oh,  no,  of  course  not.  You  couldn't  expect 
that.  (A  tiny  yawn.  She  puts  her  finger  on  her 
mcuth  and  looks  very  serious) 

BOB.  No,  anyone  that  expects  to  be  like  a  mother 
has  got  to  be  one,  that's  all.  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  something — when  I  sat  there  on  those  steps  a 

little  while  ago What  I  thought  about  life — 

well,  it  wouldn't  do  at  all  for  a  little  girl  like  you  to 
hear.  But  I  was  wrong,  I  don't  care  what  anyone 
says,  it's  all  right.  And  we  ought  to  realize  when 
we're  unhappy,  that  any  time,  a  little  thing  like  a 
robbery  can  make  it  beautiful. 

EDIE.     (Sleepily)     I  think  life  is  beautiful. 

BOB.     I  know  it  is. 

EDIE.  I  don't  understand  people  who  are  unhappy 
— Aunt  Abbie  was  always  unhappy. 

BOB.    Because  she  wasn't  married,  I  suppose. 

EDIE.  I  suppose  so.  And  now  she'll  be  unhappy 
because  she  is. 

BOB,  (A  little  sleepy)  When  would  you  like  to 
get  married?  I  mean  do  you  believe  in  early  mar 
riage  or  do  you  think  it's  better  to  wait? 

EDIE.    Well,  I  think  it  depends. 

BOB.  So  do  I.  But  why  wait?  I  mean  if  a  thing's 
worth  doing  it's  worth  doing  well — I  mean — quick. 
After  all,  love  is  just  love,  isn't  it?  If  it's  going  to 
last  it  is — ''f  it  doesn't,  it  isn't.  I  mean  if  it  isn't,  it 
doesn't.  So  it's  not  going  to  make  things  any  better 
as  far  as  I  can  see,  to  wait. 

EDIE.    No.    Not  in  the  least.    (EDIE  goes  to  sleep) 


THE  ROBBERY  15 

BOB.  Dear  little  thing,  she's  gone  to  sleep.  Thank 
goodness,  she  won't  have  to  worry  any  more  about 
my  keeping  awake.  Edie,  are  you  asleep?  (Very 
softly)  She  is.  Now  how  am  I  going  to  tell  when  it 
gets  the  least  little  bit  light?  fEoiE's  head  droops 
against  his  shoulder.  A  little  disturbed  he  uncrosses 
his  knees  carefully,  then  deciding  not  to  wake  her, 
re-crosses  them.  He  goes  to  sleep.  He  gently,  in 
his  sleep,  puts  his  arm  around  her.  His  head  rests 
against  hers) 

(After  a  few  moments  Voices  off.) 

MARGARET.  Well,  I  know  her  better  than  you  do, 
dear.  You'd  have  had  a  very  cold  reception  with 
out  the  silver,  I  can  tell  you. 

JOHN.  All  right,  all  right.  You  know  best,  about 
your  own  relatives — but  I  must  say  if  it  weren't  for 
Edie's  future  I  wouldn't  go  a  step — not  a  step. 

MARGARET.  Don't  wake  Edie  talking  so  loud. 
Just  slip  in  and  get  it,  and  come  right  out  again. 

(JOHN  enters,  followed  by  MARGARET.    JOHN'S  eyes 
rest  on  the  sleeping  pair.) 

JOHN.    (Horrified)    Margaret! — Margaret! 

MARGARET.    John  ? 

JOHN.  (Hardly  able  to  speak)  Will  you — will 
you  look  on  the  couch  ?  Edie  !  And  a  strange  young 
man (Peering  at  them)  Yes — in  my  dressing- 
gown  ! 

MARGARET.  (Greatly  interested)  Why,  John ! 
Who  do  you  suppose  it  is !  I  never  saw  him  before 
in  my  life ! 

JOHN.  Margaret,  I  have  told  you  all  along  that 
your  ideas  about  bringing  Edie  up  would  result  in 
disaster.  Now  you  see  for  yourself. 

MARGARET.  See?  See  what?  I  don't  see  any 
particular  disaster  about  it  yet.  Of  course  I  don't 


16  THE  ROBBERY 

understand  it,  but  the  boy  is  a  very  nice-looking-,  in 
fact  quite  a  distinguished-looking  boy.  .  .  . 

JOHN.  And  he's  here  in  my  house  asleep  in  my 
dressing-gown,  with  my  daughter  in  his  arms ! 
That's  all  right,  I  suppose.  Quite  all  right  if  one 
is  modern  enough  to  think  so. 

MARGARET.  John,  do  lower  your  voice  and  don't 
talk  about  your  house  and  your  dressing-gown  and 
your  daughter.  The  house  is  ours  and  the  dressing- 
gown  I  gave  you  for  Xmas  and  Edie  is  certainly 
mine.  .  .  . 

JOHN.     (Gloomily)     I  fear  the  worst. 

MARGARET.  I  don't.  I  have  perfect  confidence 
in  my  child.  I  don't  know  anything  about  your 
ancestors,  John,  but  mine  alone  would  prevent  any 
scandal  occurring  in  the  family. 

JOHN.  She  said  going  to  Rochester  would  be  too 
much  for  her — but  she's  killed  her  father — that's 
what  she's  done! 

MARGARET.  John,  don't  be  ridiculous — why  don't 
you  wake  him  up  and  ask  him  what  he's  doing  here  ? 

JOHN.  I  don't  need  to  ask  him.  But  I  will.  .  .  . 
(He  leaps  upon  BOB.  They  fight) 

BOB.  It's  Fielding!  So  you're  back,  are  you, 
after  that  salt  spoon? — you  avaricious  old  thief! 

EDIE.     Stop !     Mercy ! 

BOB.    Don't  be  worried — I  can  handle  him. 

EDIE.    Don't!    That's  my  father! 

MARGARET.     Stop  him,  Edie! 

BOB.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon — I  thought  you  were 
the  Butler! 

JOHN.     And  who  are  you,  if  I  may  ask? 

EDIE.    Father,  don't — don't  tremble  so ! 

JOHN.  I'm  not  trembling — or  if  I  am  it's  not 
with  fear. 

EDIE.    Of  course  not,  dear.     I  didn't  mean  that. 

JOHN.  To  come  into  my  house  at  this  hour  and 
find  a  perfect  stranger  and  in  my  dressing-gown 


THE  ROBBERY  17 

BOB.     I'll  take  it  off (Does  so) 

MARGARET.    Edie,  who  is  he? 

EDIE.  His  name  is — I  forget — but  he  lives  across 
the  street. 

JOHN.  Then  what  is  he  doing  here — if  he  lives 
across  the  street? 

EDIE.     Father,  you  don't  understand.  .  .  . 

JOHN.  No — I  don't.  Why  isn't  he  across  the 
street  where  he  belongs? 

BOB.  I  was.  But  I  heard  a  call  for  help  and  I 
came  in  and  found  your  daughter  alone  in  the 
house 

JOHN.    I  should  hope  so 

BOB.    I  couldn't  leave  her  alone  in  the  house1 

JOHN.    Why  couldn't  you? 

EDIE.  Father,  listen  to  me — don't  you  realize  that 
the  house  has  been  robbed?  All  Aunt  Abingdon's 
silver  and  I  don't  know  what  besides — you  know 
you  left  it. 

MARGARET.     Where  did  you  leave  it,  John? 

JOHN.    I  didn't  leave  it  at  all — you  left  it. 

MARGARET.  Why,  I  didn't — you  said  in  the  cab,  it 
was  somewhere. 

EDIE.  Well,  it  isn't  anywhere  now — and  we  think 
Fielding  has  taken  it — for  he  doesn't  answer  the 
bell — either  that  or  Fielding  is  dead — but  we  don't 
think  he  is — for  we  turned  the  Victrola  on  and  still 
he  didn't  come.  fJoHN  goes  to  bell.  Rings,  exits) 

MARGARET.    Isn't  even  Ellen  here? 

EDIE.  No,  darling — she's  gone  down  to  Maggie's 
house.  But  it's  all  right,  Mother.  This  is  Robert 
Hamilton — I  remember  now.  He  was  sitting  on  the 
steps  of  his  house  when  I  called  for  help. 

BOB.  I  suppose  you  think  that's  very  strange, 
Mrs.  Upton? 

MARGARET.  Why,  not  any  stranger  than  anything 
else. 


i8  THE  ROBBERY 

BOB.  I  was  locked  out,  you  see.  My  father  is — 
well — he's  a  little  like  Mr.  Upton. 

(MR.  UPTON  returns.) 

JOHN.  The  silver  is  gone — and  Fielding  is  not  in 
his  room.  Well,  I  never  liked  his  face.  I  said  he 
had  a  shifty  eye. 

MARGARET.  But  only  one — the  other  was  very 
nice — and  he  told  me  the  shifty  one  was  hit  by  a 
boy  with  a  bean-shooter. 

JOHN.  You  will  engage  the  servants,  in  spite  of 
any  protests  from  me.  Well,  we  won't  go  to  Roches 
ter  without  that  silver.  At  least  I  won't.  (Tele 
phone)  Now  who's  that? 

MARGARET.  Maybe  it's  Fielding! — To  say  he's 
sorry ! 

JOHN.  (At  the  phone)  Yes — that's  very  likely. 
(Into  phone)  Who  is  it?  Fielding?  Yes,  yes! 
Where  are  you  ?  At  the  station  ?  With  the  silver  ? 
Well,  my  good  man — you  have  made  us  all  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  ....  Of  course  we  won't  go  to 
night.  No,  Mrs.  Upton  is  too  upset.  Bring  the 
silver  back,  here  to  the  house. 

MARGARET.  (To  EDIE,)  Isn't  it  wonderful  how 
your  father  is  always  wrong  about  everything? 

BOB.    I  suppose  I'd  better  go. 

JOHN.  Indeed  you'll  not  go.  I  want  an  explana 
tion  of  how  you  come  to  be  here  and  who  you 
are. 

BOB.  My  name  is  Hamilton.  Robert  Hamilton. 
My  father  has  just  bought  the  house  across  the 
street. 

JOHN.  Edie,  have  you  ever  met  this  young  man 
before? 

EDIE.    No,  Father. 

JOHN.    And — and — I  find  you  asleep  in  his  arms? 

EDIE.  Father,  was  I?  How  dreadful!  f Turn 
ing  to  her  mother) 


THE  ROBBERY  19 

MARGARET.  (Putting  her  arms  around  EDIE,) 
John,  you  shouldn't  have  told  her. 

BOB.  It  wasn't  dreadful.  She  went  to  sleep  and 
I  didn't  like  to  wake  her  up.  She's  nothing  but  a 
tired  child — if  you  scold  her  I — I  have  my  opinion 
of  you. 

JOHN.  Indeed!  And  your  name  is  Hamilton. 
Where  do  you  live? 

BOB.    Just  where  I  did  before,  across  the  street. 

JOHN.  That's  easily  verified.  (Going  to  phone) 
Hamilton. 

BOB.  The  phone  is  4664  River,  but  I  wouldn't 
advise  you  to  call  him. 

JOHN.     Indeed  .  .  .     (At  phone)     4664  River. 

BOB.     He's  a  brave  man. 

EDIE.     I'm  so  sorry ! 

JOHN.  (In  phone)  Is  this  Mr.  Hamilton  ?  Well, 

I'm  sure —  Wait —  But  I — why,  you 

This  is  Mr.  Upton  speaking.  Your  son — your  son 
— your  son !  (His  voice  increasing  in  volume.  Re 
treats  from  phone,  defeated) 

ROB.  (Going  to  the  rescue)  Allow  me (At 

phone)  Hello,  Dad — I  had  to  save  a  girl's  life 
across  the  street.  A  robbery.  .  .  .  Yes,  sir,  case 
of  silver.  But  it's  been  returned  now  and  I  can 
come  home.  That's  what  made  me  late.  I'm  there 
now — I  mean  here.  I  knew  you  wouldn't  let  me  in. 
All  right,  sir — all  right.  (Picks  up  his  hat) 

EDIE.    Are  you  going? 

JOHN.  My  boy,  you  put  my  dressing-gown  right 
on  again  and  stay.  I  wouldn't  go  home  at  all — if  I 
were  you. 

BOB.  Oh,  it's  all  right — he  says  he'll  open  the 
door.  Good  night.  .  .  . 

(BOB  goes.    JOHN  goes  with  him.) 

EDIE.  Oh — he'll  never  come  again — father  acted 
so  dreadfully. 


20  THE  ROBBERY 

MARGARET.  Well,  he  won't  come  to  see  your 
father  certainly.  (Sits  on  couch.  EDIE  sits  beside 
her) 

EDIE.  He  was  so  nice.  He'd  been  to  a  banquet, 
Mother,  and  he  was  terribly  tired — and  still,  he  was 
nice. 

MARGARET.  I  really  think  he  was,  and  I  loved  the 
way  he  fought  with  your  father.  And  I  thought 
your  father  fought  very  well. 

EDIE.  I  should  say  so — especially  after  they 
stopped.  Oh,  dear!  I  liked  him  so  much  and  he 
was  going  to  give  me  a  dog,  and  now  it's  all  over! 

(BOB  offstage  whistles  a  bar  of  "The  Brook.  EDIE 
runs  to  the  window,  she  turns  and  smiles  at  her 
mother.  MARGARET  goes  a  few  steps  toward 
her.) 

EDIE.     (Looking  out)    Father's  going  across  the 

street  with  him.     Father's  gone  in (Runs  to 

her  mother,  taking  her  hands)     Oh,  Mother — now 
we  know  the  Hamiltons !    (Embracing  her  mother) 

CURTAIN 


A     000  758  755     3 


